Murmansk-13

Tor appeared at the chartroom door, staring at the VHF as if it were about to detonate. “How old is this broadcast?”

Tala shrugged, nervous tension froze her to the spot. She could feel her knuckles whitening around the lip of the table. “I don’t know, it’s just repeating. But it’s getting closer, clearer.”

Tor glanced over his shoulder at the long range radar, near where their captive cowered. His withdrawn features expressing zero emotion. “Well, we’re either saved. Or we’re about to be slagged into our constituent atoms by the Soviets.”

The message looped once again. “Deep Space Merchant Vessel Riyadh, please respond…”

Epilogue

Tala walked beside the trail of blood. The jagged lines, drying to flakes, originated beside the Captains chair, followed the staircase and led into the arterial corridor beyond. Tala felt she was tracking a mortally wounded animal as she trod carefully – at the point of origin she’d found shattered teeth and bone fragments, further along she found dark viscid pools. Mostly, as the trail wore on she found rusty streaks interlaced with partial palm prints. Whoever had been bleeding had dragged themselves to the Medical Bay, perhaps seeking aid or bandages. Perhaps something else.

As she paused in the arterial corridor Tala sensed the wonderful warmth of the heating system kicking in, delicate updrafts of balmy air stripping the atmosphere of its brittleness. The oxygen recyclers came online soon after. Slowly, the carbon dioxide saturated climate began to freshen. Momentarily, Tala remembered what it was like to exist beyond hostility. She removed her EVA suit, letting the heavy material peel from her taut body and stepped from the still gore speckled magboots. Sweat slicked the battered skin beneath the jumpsuit Jamal had given her, simultaneously rancid and beautiful.

The Captain had reset all systems, returning the ship to full operation. The Yumashev would be arriving in sixteen hours and the Captain no longer saw any point in conserving power. ‘We’ll be lucky if they detain us,’ he’d warned. ‘Might as well spend the last few hours in some comfort.’

He’d broadcast a distress message in response to their directive, informing the Soviet destroyer that the Riyadh was disabled, life support critical. A majority crew loss. The Captain seemed fatalistic of their chances. Tala agreed. Typically a warship would tow a damaged merchant vessel to safety if practical, at least render assistance. But then she’d recalled Katja’s tale – the evacuation of Murmansk-13; lifepods being blown out the ether by Soviet destroyers. That wasn’t only a contravention of United Nations deep space code, it was unconscionable.

‘They’ll pin the blame on us, what happened with the station’ Tor said, as he bound the man, Mikhail. ‘Or cover it up.’

If she was going to die, she didn’t want to wait for death, watching the radar as the Yumashev closed on a parabolic vector. She supposed it would reach targeting range much sooner than the sixteen hours rendezvous estimate, probably within a couple of hours for long range railgun projectiles. Either way, Tala decided to busy herself and resolved to find Hernandez. Knowing in her heart that he was probably gone. Knowing she had already lost so much.

As the ships primary lighting system fizzed to life, she followed the bloody trail into the Medical Bay. The now familiar smell of death hit her instantly. Pavlovian conditioning prepared her enervated body for flight, fast twitch muscle fibres transitioning to standby. Tala paused at the base of the stairs, watching strip lights flicker to life the length of the bay. Past the empty and open cryogenic pods she could see the rumpled remains of someone. The rib cage splayed apart, ribs reaching for the deckheads.

Cautiously, Tala approached the body. It wasn’t Hernandez, so she supposed it was Igor. Blood slicked and spattered the area in which the District Seven leader fell. His corpse torn and decimated, his innards scooped from his torso and organs ripped from their housings. A look of surprised horror was pasted across his alabaster face, specks of blood dappled his skin, lips and open eyes.

Tala doubted the man would rise, the attack had been savage and relentless. Pent up voracity overcoming the need for transmission and multiplication. Regardless, she recovered the rivet gun that lay a short distance from Igor’s hand and absently fired a rivet at point blank range through his forehead. Then a second. Jellied coagulate filled the two neat holes. His expression remained the same.